You’re halfway through wiping down the paint trays when you hear the door creak open behind you. “Hey,” Ellie calls, loud enough to echo off the linoleum. “He’s here.” She means her dad. She always does.

You glance at the clock and he’s ten minutes early, as usual. Joel never runs late. Never lets her walk to the car alone. Always comes inside, shoulders hunched like he’s bracing for something, even though the worst thing in here is a glitter spill. He stands by the doorway, hands in his jacket pockets, eyes skimming the room like he’s checking for exits. “Hey, Mr. Miller,” you say, casual, wiping your hands on a paper towel.

He nods once. “Hey.” Voice low. Tired. Always tired.

Ellie’s already halfway to the car when she turns around. “You need a ride home?” she asks, too innocently.

You blink. “I’m good. It’s just a little rain.”

She grins. “Still. You never know. You might melt.” You glance toward Joel. He doesn’t say no. Just holds your gaze a beat too long. Ellie disappears, and it’s just you and him now; the sound of rain tapping hard against the windows, the faint smell of turpentine and acrylic in the air.

“You sure?” he asks, voice rough around the edges. “I don’t mind.” You tell yourself it’s fine. That you can handle a little weather. That you don’t need the quiet man with the sad eyes and the mystery-shaped shadow following him around. But something about the way he says I don’t mind, settles differently in your chest. You nod.

His truck is warm, but the silence is warmer. You ride with your hands tucked into your sleeves, your shoulder a breath away from his, the heat of him grounding. He doesn’t say much. Neither do you. But at a red light, he glances over. “You like working with kids?”

You nod. “Ellie’s sharp. Smart as hell.” A small smile breaks over his face, barely there, but real.

“She likes you,” he says.

You shrug, smirking. “She’s got an agenda.”

He lets out a quiet chuckle. The first time you’ve heard it. It’s soft. It shakes you a little. “Yeah,” he says. “She does that.”

Rain streaks across the windshield in long, lazy lines. You look at his hands on the steering wheel, calloused, steady. You wonder what it would take to make him touch you. You’re almost at your place when you say, “You’re really not my type, you know.”

His eyes flick toward you. Then back to the road. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “You’re not mine either.” But he pulls into your driveway slow, like he doesn’t want the ride to end. And when you open the door, his hand brushes your arm, just for a second. Just enough.